Reconciliation
by Rosywonder
Summary: Can a partnership be created from two such individuals as Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin?  A HODOWE challenge story based on the themes of Shrove Tuesday.


RECONCILIATION

_**Bless me, for I have sinned,**_

Napoleon sat down, the chair creaking slightly under his weight. The room was in shadow, only the light over the bed casting bold deep shadows over the ceiling, until his eye was swept back to the golden pinpoint of its beam.

He lay there utterly still, the long eyelashes on one eye at rest on the bluish skin beneath, the other a scarcely recognisable melange of black and red. Only the steady rise and fall of the thin sheet gave Napoleon reassurance, even though the Russian's body seemed a mass of deepening bruises, made more horrific by the gothic shadows of the lamp. In the sharp contrast of light and dark, his features took on a heightened look, the full lower lip, the tilt of his jaw and the elfin ears holding back the soft blond hair, now matted with blood where it had poured out of his mouth. It was his mouth that now drew Napoleon's attention, the lips swollen around a bloody mess that was the irrefutable evidence of a beating.

His first impressions of the man had been of someone slight, but the muscular shoulders, the rather sinewy arms and large powerful hands seemed to suggest otherwise. Napoleon reached out, spontaneously grasping the hand nearest him, eliciting a murmuring sound before Kuryakin's head turned slowly and painfully round.

He held Solo's gaze for a few moments before, his uninjured eyelid squeezing down slightly, he managed to speak, the sound coming out like a kind of choking.

'I'm so sorry.'

_**in my thoughts,**_

'Come in Mr er, Solo.' He had seldom been in this room in the last year, except in the company of other, more senior colleagues. Usually Grant Chesters, with his partner lurking somewhere in the background dealt with him, assigning his missions, his partners, and then dealing with the fallout when it came. And it seemed to be coming a lot this year.

Napoleon edged round the table and slid into one of the chrome and leather chairs he had admired so much when he last gained entry here. Chesters, sporting the look of a man who knew he'd be in the seat next to him at some stage glanced up, and then looked at Waverly, a hard look that had '_deal with him' _written all over it.

There were six files on the table and Napoleon had a shrewd idea of exactly who they belonged to. Waverly was thumbing through them, before with a tiny sigh he closed the last one and looked up, an altogether more compassionate expression subtly suggesting that his approach could turn out to be different than Chesters'.

'We have a proposition, Mr Solo' Waverly began. 'It appears that keeping a partner seems to be rather a problem for you.' Napoleon smiled a little despite the rather desperate circumstances. The six folders belonged to six men. Six men who had, in the last year been partners to Napoleon Solo, glamour boy of Princeton, military hero, a legend in his own lifetime; but as an UNCLE agent, veering towards a spectacular failure of historic proportions. Two of those men were dead, two so badly injured they were considered unfit for the Section, and two had resigned. Six men. All in one way or another, as unable to work with him as he was unable to work with them.

Napoleon pondered them, pondered the reasons which had seen a career which promised so much, about, it seemed, to end in dismal failure. Waverly's voice cut through, stopping his train of thought, his reflection.

'Do you remember the man you brought back from London, the Russian?' He did remember him and he prayed that his face did not register how he felt at that moment. Illya Kuryakin. Instantly he was back standing miserably under that tree while Kuryakin played a waiting game inside what qualified as his apartment, waiting that is until Solo was suitably soaked and he was ready to come out and play.

'Yes, er, I do remember him, sir.' Napoleon could see the beginning of a rather wry grin appearing on the face of Norbert Steele, Chester's normally dour partner. The way this conversation was going, Napoleon thought, they'd be suggesting Kuryakin as his partner next. He snorted slightly at the thought.

'We thought Kuryakin and you might make a great pair' Chesters said, evilly. 'At least that way, nobody else's life gets ruined.' Waverly glared at Chesters suddenly, putting down his pipe with the kind of force that made the other man jump slightly.

'Not at all' he said quietly. The door, operated by Waverly's unseen hand, suddenly opened.

'You can leave gentlemen. I will deal with Mr Solo now.' Chesters and Steele stood up immediately, a look of frustration on both men's faces. Napoleon guessed that whatever they had been looking forward to, hadn't quite worked out as they hoped. When the door closed behind them he turned back to the man left at the table.

'I value your talents, Mr Solo, and in the last few weeks I have come to value those of Mr Kuryakin. But there comes a time, and it has come for both of you, when some sacrifice has to be made. Extraordinary as it may seem to you, I have a very strong feeling, based on long years of dealing with young men just like both of you, that despite your differences, you may forge a remarkable and productive partnership between you. Now, are you prepared to try, or will you hand in your credentials before you leave?'

_**in my actions,**_

The bar was noisy, with a strange smell confined to a large gathering of people who had obviously chosen a drink after a day's hard, manual work rather than a shower. He had chosen places like it to spend an increasing number of his leisure hours because ever since he had arrived he had been pursuing what felt like a relentless and ultimately, or so he thought now, futile quest to belong.

Whatever he had imagined life in America to be, it was not this. The man they had sent to escort him, the American, had disappeared into the metal walls as soon as they had reached headquarters, Illya's fleeting hope of some kind of instant friendship dashed. He had become used to a solitary existence and there was no reason why that should not continue, he told himself. And yet, here it seemed, more than in France or in England, he felt out of touch, separated from his homeland, the old world, the academic life he had embraced, from anything that gave him a sense of who he was. He felt he understood the British, and joining UNCLE there seemed like a natural, comfortable slide from study to occupation. Here, he felt at a loss, seasick.

He had thrown himself into the duties they had allotted him, as in England, preferring to keep his personal life to himself. But in truth, his personal life was as impersonal as it could be; a small collection of books, records, journals; the most basic of apartments with furniture someone else had handed on, surplus to requirements.

The news that he was to have a partner came as a relief, considering that he knew Beldon had branded him 'a loner' unable to 'connect' as he had seen written on his report. He hadn't questioned the choice, merely accepted Waverly's decision, as he had been trained to do all his adult life. Inside though, memories of the man chosen stirred, of someone so utterly different to himself as to make any sort of partnership a huge and absurd joke destined to rebound on him sooner rather than later.

Illya picked up his glass and swallowed it in one gulp, his throat judging the Vodka to be the worst kind of cheap Polish rubbish. Tonight was to be their first mission, and he had started it well, making himself hoarse in some downtown Ukrainian dump masquerading as a bar.

He glanced at his watch. He was to pick up the document from a back room of this establishment and make a very quick exit before those who would now be missing it arrived. Even before his first vodka he realised that this was some kind of perverted test of the CIA variety, no doubt, designed to see if he was as kosher as Waverly said he was. The document was the first part of an elaborate series of ploys by someone in the Russian Embassy to persuade someone in the CIA that he would make a very reliable mole. All that was required was a go-between, someone plausible but ultimately reliable. His name had come up.

Solo had set the ground rules, Illya acquiescing to his plan on the grounds of seniority which the American seemed at pains to point out. He had set the time and then, without further comment, got up and walked out, leaving the Russian to turn off the lights in the office and go home.

Illya looked at his watch again. He had already checked the building from the outside, noting the back entrance leading to a rather narrow alleyway, his training alerting him to the potential for ambush. But the American would be there. An uneasy feeling built inside him at the thought. The pick-up would be fast, and the longer he hung around, the more obvious he felt himself to be. He put down his glass and walked round the bar and through to the smaller, sleazier back room.

_**and in what I have failed to do**_

The black casual windcheater would do over his second best cashmere; no need to dress up merely to keep Kuryakin out of trouble. Napoleon slid into his shoes and walked into the kitchen whilst glancing at his watch. If he left now he'd be there far too early, but perhaps that might be a good idea. The ringing of the doorbell caused him to put down his communicator on the counter top, the gold cigarette case faintly glowing against the black of the marble top.

He frowned when he saw her. Amanda Shaw, or 'Foxy' as her friends, and Napoleon now called her.

'Foxy, darling. Gee, I was sure it was tomorrow night' he said quizzically as she dived underneath his arm and into the apartment.

'It was, but I was bored, and who else is better than relieving Foxy's boredom than good old Napoleon' she said lazily, heading straight for the drinks cabinet. Napoleon frowned, but she did make the most amazing martinis and perhaps there was just time if he hurried. He wandered off into his bedroom to pick up his holster and jacket, as the sounds of ice going into the cocktail shaker emerged from the kitchen. Checking his watch he calculated that he had at least half an hour to spend with Foxy before he had to head downtown.

The martini, like its creator lived up to his expectations. After twenty minutes of Foxy's very enjoyable company he came up for air and patted his pocket. As he picked up the communicator he knew something was wrong. The familiar light was off.

'Sorry, baby' Foxy squeaked. 'I turned the stupid thing off, like you showed me the other day, remember? I thought we might get a bit more smozzle time, yeah?' Almost as soon as he turned the dial it began to sound, a high pitched wail denoting emergency.

'Solo'

'Jesus, Napoleon, why on earth did you have your communicator turned off?' Napoleon's hand gripped the case. 'They brought forward the rendezvous' Wanda's anxious voice continued. 'We couldn't get in touch with Illya, he must have gone in early … I don't know.'

'OK, I'm going now. Solo out'. Leaving Foxy motionless in the lounge, he ran out.

_**I ask pardon, penance and absolution**_

During the few moments it took the Russian to recover at the end of attempting to speak, Napoleon reasoned within himself that it could have been worse; but not much. He had arrived in time to witness the end of what must have been a wholly unbalanced fight between some kind of modern day David and Goliath. A massive thug of a man stood between him and his new partner, the Russian down on the ground at the receiving end of a series of blows Napoleon had to stop immediately or risk Kuryakin becoming number seven on the list of his ex-partners. Taking aim carefully, he brought him down mercifully to the side of the injured man now lying ominously still on the dark dirt of the alley.

He only realised afterwards that the ambulance had appeared almost instantly, Kuryakin's limp body hoisted aboard and removed to leave him standing in the alley alone. Napoleon stood there for a while, until a slight movement in the shadows made him frown. He turned and made for the back door of the club, opening it and shutting it again before sliding into the shadow it created.

'So rate that performance.'

'Kuryakin six out of ten. He went in way too soon but the fight was impressive. Solo, three out of ten. Foxy did the business and he was too dumb to even realise, but the shot was good, really good.'

If a cold rage could be seething, Napoleon felt it rise inside him. He waited silently until Chesters and Steele had left, before taking the more scenic route through the bar and into a yellow cab at the front. He felt a deep desperation to reach headquarters, to let his partner know what had happened . . .

He sat back and smiled grimly. His partner. The sight of the Russian pitted against his immense adversary had awoken a kind of comradely urge in him that he had last felt in Korea a lifetime ago. He thrust a ten dollar bill through to the cab driver.

'This gets us there in five minutes, OK?'

xxxxxxxxxx

The nurse, whom Napoleon noted for future reference had the name 'Flora' neatly printed on her badge, obligingly provided him with a little bed which, though at a lower level than Illya's was close enough to talk from.

Although the Russian was unable to comment, apart from a few garbled expletives in what language Napoleon was not sure of, he could see that despite his injuries, he was following the story in all its detail. When he had finished, he sat up, a little alarmed at Kuryakin's pallor, but encouraged by the look in his one good, very blue eye.

'Illya, I have a confession' he began after there had been a fairly prolonged silence between them. 'When Waverly told me about you, well, I er . . . '

'wasn't happy?' came the rather muffled reply. A rather charming, smile attempted to etch itself round the swollen lips. 'I can imagine' Illya said after a few moments. 'I'm not a good mixer.' Napoleon grinned, a broad grin despite the desperate look of the man in front of him.

'Oh, I wouldn't say that' he said.

_**go and sin no more, and pray for me, a sinner**_

Through the porthole of the door, Waverly could see them both clearly.

'Shall I open the door? I'll have to go in there soon and break it up, anyway. Mr Kuryakin needs to rest and Mr Solo hasn't stopped talking for some time.'

'No, I don't think so nurse. I don't think so.' He smiled at them, his eyes darker and sadder when he glanced at the Russian, but a smile none the less.

'


End file.
